Smile and Say Please
by Michelle-And-The-Beatle
Summary: John just wants to see Sherlock smile, but he never expected the tables to be turned on him. Tickling. Please Enjoy!


John Watson was bored. That was something nearly unheard of ever since the doctor began to live with one Sherlock Holmes. He had read the newspaper twice over and was not in the mood to skim over a book. Sherlock had no cases, and the consulting detective was surprisingly responding well to the "dullness" of everything. Said man was currently sitting at what was supposed to be the dining room table, now cluttered with paper, glass, and liquids, and was studying a specimen through his microscope. The room was in complete silence, save for the small squeaking noises the knobs of the microscope made when Sherlock went to adjust the resolution. As John sat there, bored as the dickens, he started to think. He wasn't thinking like his friend, no. It was about something that struck him as of late. John found himself noticing that Sherlock had become more... _serene_ as of late. No cases normally meant a lot of gun shots, grumbling, and jitteriness from the dark-haired man. He even bantered with John playfully on occasion. But that was no more. Sherlock still acknowledged the doctor and spoke to him instead of his skull, but he did not speak or act as freely around him. John wondered when was the last time he saw Sherlock even smile. It had been quite a long while, and the light-haired man wanted to fix it.

John glanced over at his flatmate. The expressionless face was firmly set in place as the taller of the two stared into the depths of the lenses of the microscope. John pondered how he was going to get Sherlock to smile. He watched from the armchair as Sherlock adjusted his seating on the stool and took out the slide he was looking at and held it up to the light to observe it with his own eyes. Then he set that down and put together another wet mount.

The doctor was trying to come up with some of his best jokes, but each time he opened his mouth to say one, no words would come out. He quickly abandoned that idea. But another one took its place and he sprung into action. John stood up and ambled his way towards the refrigerator, under the guise of getting a beverage. On the way there, he purposely poked Sherlock's side with his index finger and shot it up when he passed him to scratch his head. John was grinning as he faced the open fridge, not shocked to see blood in plastic packaging most-likely from blood banks lining it. Though he tried hard to hide it, John saw Sherlock flinch when he poked him and his face twitched. The doctor grabbed an iced tea and turned to throw its cap in the trash bin. He shot another glance at his associate who was back to the same position he began in. John sighed. He ventured back across the floor, this time lifting up his hand and running a finger lightly across the back of Sherlock's neck. The consulting detective's shoulders scrunched up and so did his face. John made a pleased little squeaking sound as he strode back to his chair.

"Can I help you with something?" the baritone voice barely startled the doctor. Sherlock was now turned in his stool to face John in the living room.

"Um, no I think I'm good right now."

"I was just wondering since you keep prodding me."

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that. Accidents, you know."

"Mmm," Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John for a second. Then he said, "What do you hope to gain from making me flinch?"

John paused when he was about to take another swig from his iced tea bottle. He considered how he was about to face this question.

"Well, your smile, Sherlock. You are ticklish, I can gather, aren't you?"

"No."

Sherlock turned back to his microscope without another word. This sudden reaction made John chuckle.

"No?"

"You heard me just fine."

"Yes, but I don't think you answered me truthfully."

"I will not be discussing this subject any further, thank you very much."

John knew he would get nowhere with this if he kept talking to Sherlock Holmes. He decided to put this newfound discovery into action. John set his drink down on the little coffee table next to him. As soon as he even flinched to stand, Sherlock bolted up from his stool. John chased after him.

"John!" Sherlock warned as he jumped over a table and, unfortunately for him, landed on the couch. The war veteran followed the taller one and tackled Sherlock on the sofa. The two of them struggled to gain the upper hand, which eventually landed the both of them on the floor, knocking the table over in the process. John, using his military experience, pinned Sherlock on the floor finally, on his belly with his hands prone behind his back.

"John, think about the logic behind this-"

"There is none."

"Exactly!"

"Save for it being tremendously fun," and with a smile, John Watson dug his fingers into Sherlock's side. The dark-haired man jolted to the right, trying to get away from the devious fingers on a mission. That exact mission was to make him laugh, and they were not disappointed. With his body shaking from the effort not to laugh, Sherlock tried steering his body in any way that would get John off him before he reduced him to a puddle of laughter.

The doctor changed his tactic and found purchase when he squeezed and scraped Sherlock's ribs. Small chuckles bubbled up from the other man's throat, followed by wheezing sounds. They weren't sounds that were meant to sound ill, John could tell, they were just from the strain from trying to hold in the laughter. He used his one free hand, since the other was busy tying Sherlock's hands to his back, to lightly drag his fingers across the back of his neck. Sherlock bucked a little bit as his neck was attacked, biting his lip and whimpering.

"J-J-ah!" in an attempt to say his assailant's name, Sherlock nearly let a laugh slip out.

"Quit holding out on me, Sherlock," John said, pressing his knee into the small of the consulting detective's back, making him grunt. The doctor knew what he would have to do. He released Sherlock's arms and stuck both of his hands into his sides. Sherlock's arms immediately clamped down to protect his sides, letting out a solitary "HA!" in the process. He then rocked back and forth on the floor, John easily following him.

"Just a laugh. Is this that difficult for you?"

"T-Tremehendous-_hmph_-ly!"

John tried maneuvering his hands in other places, but there was only so far you could go when someone was lying on their stomach. He let up for a second, trying to figure out what to do next. It was then that Sherlock breathed in and out heavily resting his arms beside his head. John's hands shot out and he stuck them under Sherlock's now exposed arms and there he was victorious.

"J-JOHHOHAHA-!"

Deep rumbling laughter resounded throughout the flat. John was smiling brightly. He was glad to have finally broken his friend. Sherlock would occasionally turn his head left and right as he laughed, and the left side was better for John to see the curly-haired man smiling widely. And now when John went back to Sherlock's sides, he was not disappointed. Laughter came out loud and clear from the consulting detective.

"ST-STOHOHOP!"

"Say please."

"JOHOHOHOHOHN! HAHAHA!"

"Will it kill you to say please?"

"F-FIHIHINE! PLE-AH! NAHAHOHOHO STAHAHAP!"

John had managed to reach lower during his friend's squirming and now had both hands pinching and squeezing Sherlock's hips. He chortled when Sherlock couldn't even answer him. By now, Sherlock had rolled almost onto his side, and John was straddling him in an awkward way. With one hand still going at his hip, John used his other to scribble along Sherlock's stomach. He was rewarded with what could be classified as a squeal for the dark-haired one followed by booming laughter.

"Just spit it out, Sherlock."

"AHAHAHAHAHA... PL-PLEASEPLEASEPLEHEHEHEHEASE!"

"Please what?"

"Y-YOU AHAHA BAHAHAHASTARD! HAHAHAHA... PLEHEASE ST-STOHOP AHAHAHAHAHA TIHICKLING MEHEHE! JOHOHOHN!"

"Good."

John removed his hands from Sherlock's body and sat on the floor while he leaned against the couch. He could not stop smiling for the life of him, and he rather liked it. Never mind _Sherlock_ never smiling anymore, he rarely did so as well. Eventually, Sherlock sat up. He was still trying to fight back the grin that kept appearing on his face.

"Was that really how you went about making me smile? You could have chosen a dozen other ways."

"Yes, but none of them were as fun."

They sat in silence for a short while. Then Sherlock started to advance on John.

"What're you doing?" the doctor asked, not at all liking the look on his flatmate's face.

"Why, tickling you, of course."

"But I'm not ticklish."

"Aren't you?"

"No, n-not at all."

"And how did you come to that conclusion?"

"I-I am a soldier. And soldiers are too tough for that sort of thing."

"Really? Then why are you attempting to back away from me."

John and Sherlock just stared at each other before the doctor made a move to stand. Sherlock caught him by his pant leg and brought him down in a matter of seconds.

"Let's see what you find so _fun_ in all of this, John," and without a hint of mercy, Sherlock dug into John's sides. John immediately let out belts of unrestrained laughter, trying desperately to shove off his attacker's hands from his torso.

"Would you care to know how I figured out that you were ticklish without even asking you?"

Sherlock switched to making his hand into a claw and vibrating it on John's stomach. He felt the shorter man's legs kick out behind him when he did that.

"I think I'll tell you anyway. It was quite simple and not much of a feat. But when you first tested it out on me earlier, I knew what you were planning to do to me. Really the only way you would think to get me to laugh by doing that is because at some point in your life, you were subject to tickling. Either a parent or your sister; someone had tickled you and they knew it was a sure-fire way to make you laugh. So you tried it out on me to get the desired reaction. Another hint came about while you were forcing me to laugh," Sherlock paused his speech when he heard John snort from below him. He looked down and saw that he had one hand on his ribs and the other still tickling his stomach.

"Anyway," Sherlock continued with a small smile, "I gathered that you were ticklish from the way you pinned me down. You got me so that I was on my stomach and my hands were held behind my back. Why such an awkward position? It would not really benefit the tickler, since it would be quite difficult to reach any normal ticklish spots. And as I struggled beneath you, John, you kept my hands pinned. This is because you were afraid of me fighting back. And when you finally let go of my wrists, you focused on making sure I could not get my arms up again to possibly strike you. Do you see now how I knew you were ticklish?"

It was clear that even while being tickled into oblivion, Sherlock's deducing skills were not hampered.

"B-Brihihilliahant... NO SHERLOHOHOCK!" John screamed out when his associate wiggled his fingers under his arms. His kicking became more rough and his laughter changed in pitch.

"ENOHOHOUGH! PL-PLEHEHEHEASE HAHAHA STAHAHAP!"

"Oh, I will in a second. Let me just... There," Sherlock scooted himself lower on John's body. Then he reached back a hand and squeezed John's kneecap. This, along with the incessant tickling on his armpit, caused the doctor to shriek and made his laughter turn silent. Satisfied and grinning, the dark-haired male released his friend and stood up. He offered John a hand to his feet, as well.

"I don't suppose you'd want to know how I knew your worst spots?"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

_~The End~_


End file.
